


A Christmas Cold

by pseudonymical



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Caring Sherlock, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Fluff, Gen, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Sherlock is a tsundere, Sick John, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-29
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-06 14:08:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1107769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pseudonymical/pseuds/pseudonymical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The days were counting down to Christmas when John Watson got himself a cold. In the midst of his rest, however, his flatmate knocked on his door, bringing with him surprise after surprise that rendered the army doctor speechless. Slight Johnlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Christmas Cold

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I know that Christmas was 4 days ago, but I just couldn't resist writing up a story!
> 
> (This is my first story here, so go easy on me.)
> 
> DISCLAIMERS:  
> I do not own Sherlock. (If I did, then Johnlock would be real.)
> 
> Not beta-ed, so forgive me if there are some mistakes here and there.

“Achoo!”

Sherlock Holmes took a break from the microscope to glance at the arriving man, all clad in two layers of bed sheets over a blue robe, complete with a napkin stuffed into one of his nostrils. Clearly, not one of his finest moments.

“A cold?” Sherlock asked, already looking back into his eyepiece.

“Yeah,” came the nasal reply. “Runny nose and all.”

John Watson made his way to the kitchen in a speed perhaps slower than a snail’s, dragging his feet on the carpeted floor. Having reached the kitchen, he poured himself a cup of tea, during which he spilled half the amount of tea that actually made it inside the cup. Sucking in his mucus, he took the cup and dragged himself over to his usual couch. All his actions seemed excruciatingly slow and… _snotty_.

“Not just a cold. Fever. 100 degrees, at least,” Sherlock muttered as he adjusted the objective lenses. “Out of aspirin?”

“Yes. 102 degrees.” John coughed. “And yes, no aspirin. Do you mind getting some, please? I’m, um, not really in the condition to run an errand.” He coughed again.

“Of course you’re not.”

“So will you? Get some aspirin, I mean.”

Sherlock shot him a skeptical look. “Come on, John. You know me better than that,” he accused.

“Sherlock –”

“My coat, front pocket,” Sherlock muttered, now twisting the fine adjustment knob on the microscope. “I know the symptoms of a fever when I see them.”

“Right,” John croaked, reaching for the coat folded on the couch opposite of his. “Thanks.”

“Go back to your room,” Sherlock advised. “The heater’s broken here. Winter hasn’t been kind to us.” And to think that Christmas was supposed to be a cheerful day…

Sherlock and John stood up at the same time, meandering around the flat, minding their own business. By the time John reached his door, Sherlock was back peering into his microscope, having played Bach’s BWV 1041 concerto on his violin, fixed the crooked tree in front of their fireplace and downed a cup of tea.

* * *

 

“John?”

Waking up to the sudden brightness of the room, John propped himself up on his elbows, blinking. The blinding light felt like arrows stabbing his head.

“Do you need anything?” he asked, rubbing his throbbing temples, which were beaded with sweat.

“Mrs. Hudson said this might help you feel better,” Sherlock replied, stepping into the room with a bowl of cool water in his right hand and a small towel in the other.

“Oh, she did? Thank you,” John replied, wincing as he lay back down on his bed. Not only was his head threatening to explode, he was in the risk of asphyxiation as well, given the plethora of mucus clogged in both his nostrils.

Sherlock placed the bowl on the bedside table, before submerging the towel into the water and squeezing off the excess water. Before John knew what was going on, Sherlock proceeded to gently placing the towel on John’s forehead after pushing away the strays of hair that were clinging onto his skin.

“Sherlock,” John said, slightly uncomfortable. “I’m fully capable of compressing my own head.”

Sherlock’s hands froze for a second, hovering just above the mess of blond hair sticking up, before quickly finding their way to their owner’s sides. “Mrs. Hudson’s request,” he said simply.

“For you to –” The older man nodded slowly, dubious. “Okay. Right. Okay.”

Sherlock pressed his lips tight and walked out of the room in four quick strides. He closed the door behind him, bringing the room into its former darkness.

If John didn’t know any better, he’d have thought that the consulting detective was actually embarrassed.

* * *

 

The familiar smell of chicken arrived before anything else. The mouth watering delicateness, bounded with a hint of pepper and salt, was enough to arouse the resting doctor even before the door to his room was opened.

“John?”

“Is that food I smell, Sherlock?” John asked, already peeling off the mess of blankets and sheets piled up on top of him. “Or are you just tampering your cells with cooking additives?”

“The former,” Sherlock replied, rather sheepishly. Realizing this, he cleared his throat and nodded to the tray on which was a steaming bowl in his hands. “Mrs. Hudson made it. Chicken soup,” he explained. “Do you want me to get the curtains?”

“No, it’s fine. The light hurts my eyes,” John replied, sitting up straighter on his bed. He paused for a while, staring at his hands, his fingers interweaved. “You said Mrs. Hudson made it?” The corners of his lips were struggling to stay flat.

“Yes, she did,” came the simple reply. “Of course she did.”

Sherlock made a beeline towards the sitting man and handed the tray to him. The broth was quite clear, with uneven chunks of chicken floating around, bumping against thin slices of carrots so soft they looked almost deformed. The aroma tickled his nose, almost making his stomach grumble. Almost, but not quite. John picked up the metal spoon, scooped a spoonful of macaroni and soup and started eating.

Upon seeing this, Sherlock was tempted to go back to the kitchen, where phloem cells were waiting to be observed under his light microscope. But he didn’t. Instead, he fumbled around the room, bending over the bedside table, reaching for the mountain of used Kleenex and dumping them into the bowl of water – now warm due to the heater – careful to pick them up one by one, delaying his exit.

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s head could not have whirled around faster.

“Thank you,” John said, still scooping up pieces of chicken and carrots and stuffing them into his mouth.

Sherlock, however, was caught off guard. “What for?” he asked.

“The soup. And the towel.” John nodded to the bowl in Sherlock’s hand. “Oh, the aspirin as well.”

“Mrs. Hudson made it.”

“She’s in Cardiff.”

Sherlock did not miss a beat. “It was canned,” he said, monotone, as if he were spurting out facts.

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Why so?”

“Canned soup doesn’t taste this bland.”

Sherlock furrowed his brows. “It’s not bland. I put salt in it.”

John grinned smugly. “Ah, so you did make it! Thank you.”

For once, Sherlock was thankful for the darkness, because if John was to see him in broad daylight right then, he’d be staring right at an imitation of a ripe tomato.

He stood up abruptly, swiping all the left over Kleenex into the bowl in one motion, and stormed out of the room.

John was left speechless in his room, grinning and chuckling as sounds of metal pots clashing against the kitchen sink entered the room.

* * *

 

This time it was the tinkling of glass that woke the doctor up.

John sat up, already prepared to greet the consulting detective when he entered the room. He could not imagine the surprised look he’d have on. Would he stutter? Perhaps even blush? Just the thought of it was enough to make him shake his head in silent laughter, which worsened his pounding head.

He waited in his bed as the noise continued, becoming louder each passing second until it was right outside his door, at which it stopped. He could see a familiar shadow from the small gap under the door, lingering there, unmoving.

John tilted his head to the side, confused. Why was he pausing? Could it be that he had a vision of the embarrassment waiting on the other side of the door and decided not to bring tea for the sick man?

“Sherlock?” John called out. “Is that you?”

Receiving no reply, he stuffed his feet into his slippers and headed towards the door, his hands clutching a blanket around him securely. He opened the door.

“Bloody – just what are you _doing_ , Sherlock?”

Sherlock cleared his throat…

And started singing.

“ _Jingle bells, jingle bells_ ,” he sang, hopping awkwardly from side to side into the room. “ _Jingle all the way._ ”

John watched, eyes wide in astonishment, as his friend pranced around his room, singing rather out of tune. He had on a very bright green Christmas jumper, something John was sure he hated so much he’d rather go on without a case for a week than be caught wearing it. Strings of fairy lights were tightly tied around him, blinking red and green as he made his way around the room. A golden star was tied onto his messy hair, completing the Walking Christmas Tree look.

“ _Oh what fun it is to ride in a one horse open sleigh!_ ” Sherlock finished with a jump towards John, which proved to be a horrible idea – considering how his legs were coiled with fairy lights – when he suddenly lost his balance and fell face-first to the carpeted floor.

“Uh,” he groaned, lifting up his head from the floor. “John, help me up would you?”

John did nothing of the sort. He simply stood there, blinking, gaping at his friend as he tried to wiggle out of the chaos of wires. No words could explain how he felt right then.

“Sherlock,” he murmured. “You’ve gone mad.”

Sherlock sighed, defeated. All the festive energy he had before dissipated instantly. “I’ll explain all this later,” he said, exasperated. “Just get me out of this mess, would you?”

John nodded slowly, dubious to the promise that any words would be able to explain all this, before helping his friend sit on the corner of his bed as he untangled the fairy lights.

“So,” he said, untying the golden star from the younger man’s hair. “Mind explaining?”

“It’s something Mycroft always did when we were young,” Sherlock started, pausing here and there to scratch his forearm. The jumper really did look uncomfortable. “The first time he did it was when I was sick during Christmas; he dressed up as Santa Claus to entertain me.  The second time, near St. Valentine’s day, when he dressed up as an extremely obese cupid in the hospital where I was getting my appendix out. A leprechaun on St. Patrick’s day; a clown on April fools; even a scarecrow on Harvest Festival. It seems impossible, given our relationship today, but we were different back then.”

By then John was already seated beside him on the bed, listening carefully as the detective went on about his childhood – something that, throughout the 3 years they’d been friends, had never been discussed or even hinted. It was almost as if Sherlock didn’t have a past at all, just a string of years where he sat locked up in a room with his books and crimes leading up to the day they met.

“And so,” Sherlock’s voice penetrated the thick cloud of wonder in John’s mind, “I thought I might give it a shot, seeing how it worked on me those years back. Are you feeling better?”

John jolted awake from his daydream. “Sorry, what was that?”

“Your fever. Are you feeling better?” Sherlock repeated.

“Ah yes.” John placed a hand on his forehead, feeling the warm skin still slightly beaded with sweat, but was clearly emitting less heat than it had before. “Yes, it’s gone down, the fever. Looks like I’ve got your soup to thank.” The corners of John’s lips perked up as Sherlock groaned.

“I’m telling you, it’s _canned soup from Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen_ ,” he tried one last time. “I never cook. Never have and probably never will.”

John chuckled. “Explains the bland taste then.”

“Your taste buds are simply not functioning well with the fever,” Sherlock reasoned.

John shook his head. “Nope. I know bad soup when I see one. That one was staring at me directly in the face.”

“Oh, piss off.”

John chuckled. “Thank you Sherlock. For the towel, the soup and the… _entertainment_.”

Sherlock looked at his friend for a brief moment before standing up and brushing himself off.

“Yes, yes. You’re welcome,” he said quickly, running a hand through his hair. “Now, seeing as to how you’re all better, let’s go redecorate the tree I’d stripped bare, shall we?”

Sherlock lent out a hand, and John, laughing in spite of himself, took it without a moment’s hesitation.


End file.
